Experimentation
by TheMoonIsBrightTonight
Summary: Sherlock decides to conduct an experiment, unbeknown to John, the detective proves to be very persistent.
1. Early Morning Experiment

**A product of my own boredom at 1am in the morning. It's set early in the relationship between Sherlock and John.**

_6am_

Sherlock Holmes the early riser drowsily pours milk into an old Peter Rabbit mug, _his favourite mug, _but no telling John that. One mustn't build an attachment to inanimate objects.

He slinks about the flat and watches the light of the early morning sun, mingle with the dust his footsteps had stirred. His eyes scan the speckles of gold strewn up lazily into the air.

He presses the rim of his mug to his lips, a deduction already in place, _to hot to drink? No,_ he decides, letting his mouth linger on the cracked china. He takes a sip, the amber liquid smooth down his throat, the taste familiar, welcoming.

He paces rhythmically, his wrist twisting upwards in order glimpse periodically at his watch.

_7:00am._

The light still streaming through window burns brighter, brilliantly orange now. It casts a glow over every piece of furniture in 221B. He muses over the way the light hits his skull on the mantle. The perfectly preserved bone shimmers ever so slightly; it's hollows more prominent, more ghastly. _Fantastic._

_John will be up soon_. He looks at the stairs wistfully, and finishes the last drop of his tea before deciding to make one for his flatmate. _John, sweet and unbelievably naive John._

He limbers through the hall, one hand gripping his mug the other tracing patterns down the wall. His silk dressing gown hangs off one shoulder, the length of it floating behind him like a plume.

_(Creak)_

He cringes as the weight of his foot, produces a growl from one of the floorboards. He tiptoes past it and reaches the kitchen. Nimble fingers grasp the metal kettle; he fills it up, placing it on the stove to boil.

_7:30am_

He drops his hand, _not long now, and_ impatiently watches the kettle boil. It's spout irregularly producing delicate curls of steam. He decides to sit, over opting to lean awkwardly against the sink, and brushes his jawline anxiously with his fingers. He can feel the stubble there, a bit rough, give it one more day then he'll shave it off. _John likes stubble; _Perhaps he'll hold off on the razor for just a tad longer…

He waits, trying to be patient. But it's always so hard before John is awake. The Kettle sings, it's shrill squeal, once again filling 221B with noise. He glares annoyed in the direction of John's Bedroom; _surely it would have woken him up._

Nothing. Not even the squeak of bedsprings can be heard, John is still dead to the world. Probably wrapped in his duvet, blissfully deep in the crevices of his mind. Sleep. If only he himself didn't struggle to obtain it. It must be nice to forget the world, even briefly.

_8:00am_

Sherlock, now oh so _bored. _Rakes his fingers through his hair, separating each and every wild curl. He sighs, placing John's steaming mug of tea in front of him on a wooden coaster.

_That's it. _He had waited long enough, he finds himself shuffling up the stairs, the mug of tea firm in his grip, it's contents sloshing over the rim, leaving a trail of liquid down the stairs.

He pauses outside of Johns door, it's cracked open just a bit. It couldn't possibly do any harm to check on him. _Or wake him up._ He snakes his fingers through the crack and pushes softly. His eyes rest on John's form buried, just as predicted_, _beneath his duvet. Just the top of his head protrudes; the rest of his body is hidden. He calculates John's breathing rate, _deeply asleep then._

He circles the edge of the bed before deciding to leave the now half empty cup of tea on John's beside table. He stands a moment longer, yearning to lift the covers off John's face and reveal more of him other than the sandy tips of his hair. The peaceful state of John, made an already sleep deprived Sherlock suddenly jealous. _I would love to sleep like that. _He glowers childishly at the unmoving lump.

Sherlock watches and fidgets, he can't seem to fathom leaving the room. John's room, full of his doctors supplies strewn all over the floor, the smell of his aftershave lingers to a towel hanging off his mirror. _It's decided._

Sherlock quietly and slightly guiltily, peels back the covers and slips in next to John. He inches in, moving ever so gently so as not to wake him. A smile plays at his lips in knowing he will probably give John the fright of his life when we wakes up and that the logical part of his brain keeps telling him that this is a bad idea. But right now it doesn't matter, this little experiment will somehow, be worth it.

He curls in closer to John, who's head still remains buried, and allows himself the luxury of letting an arm brush against his back. _No movement, still asleep_.

Sherlock sinks into a blissful state of mind, his eyes close, his hand still remains pressed reassuringly against John's skin. _It's warm. _The heat radiates outward pulling Sherlock closer yet, to the other mans body. It is only when his mouth is pressed absentmindedly to John's shoulder does he slip under completely. They sleep together till well past noon.

The glorious sun now high in the sky, tries to entice all of London to get out of their flats and houses. John Watson stirs groggily and he notes how he feels heavier than usual. He tries to move, but remains lodged between a pillow and something less forgiving, something warm? A weight remains at his waist and he pulls his hand up from under the covers to grasp at the object holding him down. He picks it up, tilts his head and squints trying to get a better look at it. _A hand? _He snaps his jaw up, He couldn't remember bringing someone home last night. It's been a whole week since his last date. It then dawns on him. The hand was far to large to be a woman's, much to masculine with slender and Pale digits. _Oh dear._

John flips over, his nose nearly brushing with the consulting detectives. He stares at Sherlock, his eyes wide, thoughts wild. _Sherlock is asleep. Sherlock is asleep in my bed, I-I slept with Sherlock!_

John remains paralyzed, absolutely rooted where he is, his attention firmly on the detectives open mouth, his cupid bow lips strangely enticing.

Before a second though was given, John bravely leans in and pecks the man next to him firmly, but with haste on his open mouth. He waits with bated breath, for Sherlock to wake, but he doesn't. It's with that, John get up, his legs feeling unusually wobbly and weak.

He grabs the mug on his bedside table; it's half filled and bitterly cold. He needs a fresh one. So he grabs his own dressing grown and wraps it firmly around his waist before heading down to the Kitchen.

Sherlock peeps from behind heavy eyelids and counts 4 of John's steps down the stairs before he let's himself smile, a big smile, one that tugs wide at each corner of his mouth. His experiment was a success and the infatuation with John, was still so painfully there.

**Hope you guys enjoyed it, (if not) feel free to review and inform me as to what I could have done to make it better! ^.^**

**This story is labeled as completed, but if any readers think this could be turned into a multi-chapter story let me know and I might consider adding more! Also no, it hasn't been read by a beta, if anyone out there would like to personally review it for me or be my beta drop me a message. That is all for now, thank you darlings! xoxo**


	2. Cortisol

**Wooohooo! Ok, here's more for you lovely readers!**

John bounces his leg under the table. He licks his chapped lips and traces the handle of his mug nervously. _Why was he nervous?_

There was only one thing that could be causing him butterflies and that was the 6-foot man, who was still entangled in his sheets. _My bed? Honestly, why?_ How did Sherlock crawl into mybed anyway? Not that he was complaining, John _stop. _He cringes, suddenly embarrassed. _It's nothing. _He shakes his head knowingly.

The thoughts were ridiculous and relentless. As time passes, John still remains at the kitchen table. Suddenly he finds the compelling urge to clean the whole flat from top to bottom.

The cleaning, such a mindless task, could soothe anyone's frazzled mind. He scrubs at the stains on the coffee table, polishes the windows and even vacuums the drapes. A slight sheen had managed to work it's way over his brow. He wipes at it with the back of his hand, and drops into the nearest armchair. _It's Sherlock's, go figure. _He slumps exasperated into the old chair, the leather squeaks as he moves. _It's a beautiful chair, and comfortable._ He rests a moment longer, dazed and exhausted from all the cleaning, however the silence is broken when the sound of sleepy footsteps reaches his ears.

John leaps hastily out of Sherlock's chair, grabs the vacuum and switches it back on.

_(Whiirrrrrrrrrrr)_

It hums deafeningly throughout the flat. _Perfect_. His eyes graze the stairway waiting for feet to show. Seconds later Sherlock's slipper clad feet come into view. John grabs the vacuum and pushes it back and forth vigorously, _nervously…_

He yells over the annoying hum of the greedy machine.

"Have nice sleep?" The sarcasm is layered on thick.

"Brilliant" The detective croaks, his voice still husky, he curls his hand behind his neck, stretching nice and slow, his blue t-shirt rides up revealing the white band of his pants.

"Best one I've had for a long time."

The smirk was there; yes John could see it, _the bastard. _He looks back down at the vacuum, as Sherlock basically struts over to him. The tension was almost unbearable, _how charming…_

John pushes the vacuum again, as if proving the point that he was on a strict cleaning mission, and smiles tightlipped at the paused Sherlock, _standing like a fucking statue, _in front of him.

It comes out sharper than he thought it would.

"What do y-you want?"

"Didn't anyone ever teach you how to use a vacuum?"

"What?"

The taller man takes one large, very purposeful step towards John and grips the handle; he wraps lanky fingers around Johns, the pressure subtle, and _distracting _as hell.

He stands so that they are barely touching, the silk of his dressing gown brushes his wrist, and the vacuum is pushed, making sure that the handle is tilted. The tip moves in a perfect curve, the way Sherlock had _twisted their hands._

"You see, you were doing it wrong, it's simple actually, a very basic maneuver and it would make less work for you."

"Cheers." He finds himself breaking the contact between them. His palms damp.

"You're welcome," Sherlock shrugs, his curls bounce with the nod, and he twirls on his toes and strides to the kitchen_, obviously smug._

John watches through narrowed eyes, as Sherlock disappears through the doorway. It was bad enough living with a mopey Sherlock but this cocky attitude thing he had going, was certainly something to behold. John coughs, trying to clear the lump that had settled in his throat. This behaviour had been progressing for roughly 3 weeks now, the tension was horrendous. He never felt so out of the loop before; it made him _edgy,_ to say the least.

Sherlock appears with a fresh cuppa, holding a piece of plain toast. John sighs exasperated.

"We got butter you know, and an assortment of spreads in cupboard."

"I'm well aware."

"Right, just letting you, uh, know."

Sherlock nods, chewing slowly on his toast, he licks a stray crumb that had crept it's way to the corner of his mouth. His eyes burning through John's as he does so. He breaks the eye contact momentarily, and gestures lazily to the vacuum.

"You going to do that all day?"

"No of course not, I-I was going to head into the clinic today."

Sherlock drops his hand and raises an eyebrow.

"On a Sunday?"

"I uh, well… It's Sunday?"

"Indeed." He sips his tea nonchalantly. John can feel his face glowing with embarrassment, _great._

Sherlock grins, a bemused expression flitting across his features.

"What now?"

"You are very endearing at times Watson. Your brain doesn't even want accommodate basic information at the present. You are flustered due to the release of cortisol. Although being flustered isn't the only reason that cortisol is secreted into the bloodstream, it has been deemed the stress hormone because it's also secreted in higher levels during the body's 'fight or flight' response.

"I'm not flustered!"

"Lire, also you refuse to open you mind, to the very perfect capabilities it processes. And then there's myself, brain turns destructive if left without a case for merely a week. Speaking of which, any calls from Lestrade?

The tangent of words flowed freely past his lips. John gapes at his flatmate, both a little in awe, and a little bit confronted. It was always like that with Sherlock, but it never ceased to take him aback.

"One." He grumbles.

"Oh, brilliant! What and who?

"Little girl, 10 to be exact, was found with a snapped neck, bruising suggests it was done purposely. She was battered and bleeding from another area as well, a place she should've been touched yet. Her family is very upset. They called while you were still asleep, _in my bed."_

"Right, so a murder and rape it is, but why? 10 years? She's young, very young, and fragile then. Could be a sex offender? John nods.

"Possibly." Sherlock holds out his hand, palm facing up, and beckons frantically with curled fingers.

"Right. Hand me your phone."

"There is noting wrong with yours."

"What, my phone?

"No, your bed."

"Yes, that's all well and good John, however _yours_ is in your back pocket, give it to me."

John hands his phone reluctantly to Sherlock, his annoyance brilliantly obvious.

"Oh don't let it irk you Watson, you're better than that. Besides we have another case!"

John watches the tall man prance euphorically through the flat, his fingers pointed gracefully beneath his chin. He admires the enthusiastic display rivaling that of an excited schoolboy.

He shakes his head in amusement, _and to think Mr. Holmes that you find my traits endearing, honestly…_

**Hope you are liking it so far, I wanted to slow this chapter down a bit, get a little more development on the characters. Don't worry though more sexual tension is on it's way! As for spelling and grammar, I hope this chapter was a little more bearable to read than the last. Let me know what you liked or what you didn't. ^.^**


	3. Can I get Your Digits?

**Hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

The case on the girl with the snapped neck lasted a week and a half, in other words. Both the detective and his blogger where exhausted. Turns out it was the girls father_. _

Sherlock hails the nearest cab his voice sharp, and whistle shrill. A cabbie veers towards them, his wheels almost scraping the curb.

"Where to?"

"22IB Baker Street please."

"My, don't we have an attractive voice." The cabbie turns to look through the glass at Sherlock.

"Pleased to meet your acquaintance." He bats his eyelashes at the disheveled Sherlock, clearly taken with him. John sits amused, hands crossed watching intently, despite the little to no sleep, over the course of a 12-day period. He catches the detective's eye and smiles smugly.

"Told you."

"John, not now." Sherlock rubs his temple not amused in the least. The young cabbie flashes a brilliant smile.

"Can I get your digits?"

"No, 221B Baker Street_, _if you'd be so kind."

"Really? You're just going to brush me-" Sherlock raises a hand to shush the driver, who did appear relentless in his mission to obtain a phone number. John finds himself biting his lower lip, trying _very hard, _not to laugh. Sherlock smiles politely at the cabbie his eyes flashing briefly to the man's name tag.

"Phillip, can I call you Phil?

"Yes, of course."

"Well, it's a funny thing, but my boyfriend and I-" John freezes, a wave a nausea floats over him, the rest of the sentence washed out. _Boyfriend? _

Sherlock continues the small talk, luring the cabbie out of his high hopes, the finale of the performance, a hot mouth pressed to his.

Lips move skillfully along his neck, and finally graze his ear.

"At least, _pretend_ your enjoying it." He grabs John's leg in the heat of the moment, but remembers to turn and smile sympathetically at the cabbie.

"Sorry I'm taken, now if you wouldn't mind, 221B please.

"Right I see, of course." Their diver blushes and hits the blinker. Sherlock allows himself a glace at his now probably soon to be ex flatmate. John's eyes are frantic; and he holds his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger.

When they pull up to the door of 221B John is out before Sherlock can even pay the cabbie. He unlocks the door with his own set of keys and drags himself up the stairs.

"What the _HELL, _was that?" John stands at the top of the stairs, fists clenched, radiating anger. He paces from one side of the room to the other.

"I wanted to get home, I'm tired actually." Sherlock stands hunched on the sixth step, blocked by the fuming John.

"Now if you would move-"

"Oh please, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I'm married to my fucking work!" John takes one step down the stairs and then steps back up again, his hands flailing around dramatically. The detective waits it out, his own hands pressed deeply in his pockets. He knew the reaction was appropriate, but his heart still managed thud erratically in his chest.

"John I-"

"NO, don't even go there! What is this?" He stops and motions between them. "Because I'm not sure, are you?"

"It's nothing."

"Right it's _nothing_." Sherlock inches like a scolded puppy towards his master.

"I'm tired, let me pass. _Please…_

The lanky man tries to slink past John, but instead, is pressed firmly with one hand, up against the wall. The short but muscular build of the army doctor was at times deceiving. Sherlock gasps winded, his lips quiver nervously.

"God you're thin…" John rakes his eyes over the detective's body.

"The coat conceals the weight loss usually." Sherlock shrugs, his eyes closed.

"Open your eyes." John lifts his free hand and runs a finger down the other mans cheek. He shakes his head concerned.

"For fucks sake, eat… You're emaciated; it's certainly a cause for concern.

"Right, if you'd be so polite as to release me, I will make toast and go to bed, _my own bed_. I'm sorry John."

"Quite right." John nods and releases his hand from Sherlock's heaving chest.

"I'm sorry to."

"Quite right." Sherlock repeats, a weak smile toying at his lips.

They both part awkwardly from each other. Sherlock crawls to the kitchen, John to the bathroom for a hot shower.

The shower was quick, and the water, scorching. Thunder could be heard in the distance, so a storm that night was predictable. He steps out of the shower wrapping a towel around his waist and walks exhausted down the hall to his room. He changes into mismatched pajamas and goes to find Sherlock.

He finds him asleep at the kitchen table, fresh bread not even pushed down in the toaster and a can of baked beans, unopened next to the microwave. _He tried. _John smiles, pulling out the bread and placing the beans back in the cupboard.

"Sherlock." He pats the detective's back softly.

"Sherlock? His eyes flutter briefly.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," he mumbles.

"It's all fine," John replies, confused by the disorientated detective.

"The girls father raped her." He shudders, head still firm against the oak table.

"Yes, but we got him, it's ok, the mother has closure now." John drags another chair over to Sherlock's side and sits, his hand unconsciously rubbing comforting circles along his back. It was apparent that he was sleep talking, the exhaustion finally caving in on him.

"Sherlock?"

_Nothing. _

"Sherlock?"John peers nervously at the detectives face. Silent tears stream down his razor cheekbones. A strangled sob escapes his mouth.

"Mate, you're alright. John feels the sting of his own tears.

"We got him, _you _got him." He rubs more vigorously.

"You're a legend, now stop this, lets get you to bed. These longer cases aren't good for any of us!" He pauses to brush back Sherlock's knotted hair; his eyes are positively purple from lack of sleep.

"Come on." John leans over his slumped figure and wraps his arms around Sherlock's torso.

"I can't leave her…" He chokes back another sob. "She's so _tiny_…"

"I know, I know. She's resting now." John pulls gently, but firmly at Sherlock's waist, his skeletal frame easy to lift. He lets the other man's head, rest on his chest, and drags him carefully to his room.

John flicks the light switch upon entry; the room is musty. Battered, books, files and gadgets litter the floor. He softly lowers his flatmate on the bed, the springs groaning under the weight.

"There you go." He tugs at Sherlock's heavy coat; the beautiful wool still damp from the weather outside. He tilts Sherlock's head back and removes the scarf as well. John swallows hard, consumed with the sudden urge to brush his lips along the detective exposed pale neck. He lowers his head and grazes an eager mouth over Sherlock's pulse. The sensation was ridiculously overwhelming, _intoxicating. _

John bites the inside of his cheek and looks at his hands still tangled deep in Sherlock's chocolate curls. It hurts to leave him. He tried to part from his flatmate without success. He got up and went to his own room several times, but couldn't sleep. For the tenth time that night, he sat at the bottom of Sherlock's bed, riddled with confusion and desire. Relief and rest only came after John made the nervous decision to slip in next to Sherlock. With trembling fingers pressed anxiously against the detective's chest, he finally succumbs to his own exhaustion.

**Hope you guys liked that one, it was fun to write! Also I'm getting a bit lost for future chapter ideas, if anyone has any good ideas, let me know!**


	4. Persistance

_It's nothing; he thinks it's nothing…_

Sherlock repeats the words over and over again, in his head. He had woken up in his own bed, next to his blogger. Surprised but very much pleased. Pleased was a bit of an understatement actually. John had carried him then, he couldn't remember falling asleep, his heart suddenly jolts with affection.

The man next to him snores lightly, his fingers bunched under his face. Sherlock rolls over, propping his head up on his hand, he takes in, every inch of, _his doctor's_ face. The freckles splattered frantically across his nose, the crease in the middle of his lower lip and even the length of his sandy eyelashes.

But it wasn't enough; the detective's eye for detail was always exceedingly sharper, when it came to John. He noticed the way he licked his lips every so often, at times it was _very_ distracting_. _He also had a tendency to rub behind his ear when he was nervous. That seemed to be happening a lot lately and Sherlock unfortunately, knew the cause of it.

John stirs, snapping him back to reality, he groans and a leg flies out from underneath the duvet. Sherlock watches intently; he could do this all day. Watching John could never, _ever, _be boring. John rolls over, now positioned towards the wall. The white cotton of his shirt is crinkled tight across his back. Flinging out a hand, Sherlock runs it _lovingly,_ between John's shoulder blades.

_Isn't that what people do, when they care? _

He rolls his fingers again, down John's spine, hands lingering at his waist, He loved John's waist, the way the muscle hitched itself to the bone was beautiful, _stunning _and the tight shirt was teasing him_. _He craved to know every inch of his anatomy, to feel every particle of his being_._ Sherlock bravely glides his hand over John's ribs and then rests it underneath his delicate collarbone. He traces the line down to the hollow of his neck, all the while inching in closer.

John twitches at the contact, eyes cautiously open.

"_No." _ He whispers softly, grabbing the pale hand at his neck. "We're not ready for this, just yet. "

The detective pauses nervously, his breathing shallower.

"You're positive?" He murmurs.

Sherlock continues testing, pressing his body, against his flatmate. John slightly panicked, resists at first. But slender fingers cling stubbornly to his hips, the contact surreal. Lips scorch a trail at the back of his neck; teethe graze his earlobe. John lets slip, a single moan, _embarrassingly,_ audible.

And Sherlock now caught between lust and experimentation, smiles with the thrill of success.

"You know, I'm not that bad." He lets go of John's hips.

"Right." John stares blankly at the ceiling. "I, uh, right." He repeats again, his face furiously red.

"Will you let me kiss you? For real this time, not like the taxi ride." He presses his lips once more to John's neck as if to emphasize his words.

"Why?"

"You know why, are you really that aloof?"

"Sherlock-"

"You have a choice!" He snaps, slightly annoyed by indecisiveness.

They ignore one another momentarily; the tension lingers, hanging thickly between them. Eyes dart and hands shake. It's Sherlock's confident baritone that breaks the silence.

"I'm persistent with my experiments anyway. " He smiles smugly.

"I- I'm your experiment?"

"Do want to be my experiment?

"Are you insulting me?" John's frustration is fueled by the simple words.

"No."

"If I wanted to be your experiment, I would have let you know, I would have _shown you…"_

"You do show me, you show me everyday. Through your actions and your choice of words. Like I said, there's the door Watson, leave if you feel so inclined to do so…"

**Ooooooh what's going to happen? :P I know this chapter is short, but the next one will be longer I promise! xx**


	5. Sher-shocked!

It was a week of caught glances and the brushing of fingertips. John was uncertain with Sherlock's awkward advances and Sherlock himself was inexperienced with wooing.

The lanky detective, not the most verbal of sorts; wanted nothing more than to engage his doctor in conversation. _As hard as it was, _he tried to pick reasonable moments to say something polite or interesting.

"You're sister _(slap)_ called _(slap)_ today. Says she's _(slap) _adopting _(slap)_ a child." He eyes John from across the room. John sighs.

"Babies _(slap) are _hard, (_slap)_, work!" He pauses, panting over the black and blue corpse, the leather-riding crop still in his hand.

"I'm thrilled, tell me about it when we get home ok."

Apparently whipping the body of a deceased human being wasn't the right moment to share exciting news. He tried a different tactic the following morning, during breakfast.

"Did you know that there are 62,000 miles of blood vessels in the human body if laid end to end they would circle the earth 2.5 times."

"Trivia Sherlock, really? It's not really your thing is it?

"Maybe."

"Fascinating…"

"Tea?"

"That would be nice." Sherlock glumly boils the kettle, plucking teabags from a ceramic jar and placing them into two mugs.

"You were out late last night, Mrs. Hudson, said she saw you, I saw you, she was pretty…." Witnessing John press a single kiss to his dates rosy cheek was unbearably painful.

"What?" John's snaps his head up defensively.

"The woman you were with, not your usual type, you're going to have to work hard to get laid for a change." It was delivered abruptly, he knew it was, but his nerves were on edge all morning and his tolerance, was dwindling.

"Sherlock, you know that what we have is-" he falters searching for the appropriate choice of words. "Well I'm not entirely sure actually."

Sherlock picks up the boiled kettle and starts pouring water it into the mugs. John frowns.

"You know, you have no right to-"

"I live with you! Of course I'm going to kno-" But his rant is cut mid sentence, scalding water burns the back of his hand. He drops the kettle on the floor and brings the now blistering skin quickly to his lips.

"_Fuck! _Right, well. John if you're still after tea, you're going to have to make it yourself." He sucks at the back of his hand, eyes closed in agony.

"Let me look at it." John steps forward hand outstretched.

"No." He stumbles over to the sink, and turns on the tap. The cold water flows over the fresh welt and stems the pain.

"Don't be git! Let me see it." John curls his fingers at Sherlock and the detective groans and walks towards him. John snakes up the trembling hand and looks it over.

"A nasty burn," he rolls it round in the light, it's angry, the welt growing, and the skin deepening in colour.

"Bet your blood vessels, love this." He smirks playfully at Sherlock.

"Shut up." He snares, pulling his hand back.

"I'm going to get a mild antiseptic cream from my room, you sit." He points to a chair. John runs to his room to fetch the cream and brings it back, sitting in a chair opposite Sherlock.

"Give it here," he holds out his own hand again. Firm fingers run the milky solution professionally over the back of the detective's hand. The antiseptic had a chemical smell; it tingled, taking the edge off the burn. John's fingers circled gently over his skin and _that_ sensation made his toes tingle as well.

"Good work Watson, much better." He flips over his now bandaged hand, eyes admiring the handiwork.

"My pleasure." John flushes at the Detectives praise. "Remember to reapply the cream every day until it heals, you can wear a bandage during the day, but make sure you let it air at night."

"I will." Sherlock smiles appreciatively at his flatmate, _his forgiving flatmate. _John's ability to comfort, played to his advantage. Without him, cases would perish. Sherlock was aware of his abrupt way of handling situations, he had been informed by John himself, of his socially unacceptable behaviour; not only that, but it frightened '_normal people.'_ John could handle it though, in fact, he found it endearing, he could handle the mood swings, the experiments, he could handle a _chase _and that's what made him _glorious._

"John?" Sherlock leans over pretending to examine his newly bandaged hand; "Thank you." He slyly catches John's unsuspecting mouth with his own. Lips part eagerly, _desperately. _

"Sher-" no good, even if he wanted to resist, it wasn't going happen. John groans feeling Sherlock's uninjured hand pulling lightly at the nape of his neck, the other shoots to his thigh. John blinks surprised, but his own arm flings out and instinctively curls around the detective's back.

"Don't," he gasps, but Sherlock smiles broadly. "Why not? Dump Matilda, Victoria, or whatever her name was and make a deduction. I know you're not inept." He grasps the doctor's arm pleadingly. "I'm here, what more do want? You think I'm naive? I practically know you better than you know yourself; _this regard aside of course_, is that not enough?"

"What are you?

"Human." The detective rolls his eyes, exasperated. John sighs.

"Some might beg to differ. "

"No, I mean, I thought you were asexual initially, then pansexual, I researched it."

"I know. You really must remember to clear your laptop history."

"Then I thought bisexual after the Adler conundrum. Now the only plausible answer has to be gay."

" Why slap on a label John? I'm selective."

"Right. Virgin then?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"No."

"What sex, uh gender? John breathes pressing further.

Does it matter? Sherlock shut's him up, tongue seeking entrance. He rolls the doctor off his chair and on onto the kitchen floor instead.

"Fine. Guess." He pants into John's neck.

"I don't need to now." He responds, _finally_ kissing back.

"What's your preference? Sherlock questions back, more importantly, what do you desire? He pins John's legs.

"I'm not so sure."

"Your body tells me otherwise."

Hips buck and buttons pop. Sherlock's purple silk shirt hangs open, revealing a pale but sculpted chest. It's magnificent; _it's Sherlock. _The detective shudders as John's _astounding _mouth, works a path up his neck. He nips his way over his jawline, cupping it gently in both hands. John roll's the detective over to straddle him, only to be flipped and pinned himself. He coughs, winded, as the detective's warm hands roll skillfully down his ribs and clutch at his waist. Breathing hitched and coming in gasps John clings to the table. Now hanging onto little of what he had left, he moans as the detective rocks his body eagerly between his legs.

"Do it!" He growls, scratching his fingers down Sherlock's bare back. The detective whimpers, taking John's lower lip in his teeth.

"Protection?"

"In my wallet." John's voice spikes an octave, his voice cracking in utter pleasure.

"To late for that," Sherlock laughs huskily, his hand sliding skillfully, between John's thighs.

"_Shit!"_

"Just go with it-" he growls, his own voice cracks as he rubs with vigour over John's trousers, still rocking, still kissing his neck.

"_Fuck me." _John manages to choke; he comes quickly, _violently, _a string of incoherent words rolling off his tongue and ending with a breathy.

"_Oh_…"

He wraps trembling legs around Sherlock hips, pulling him in tighter; and brings the detective with him. Sherlock moans and pushes a hand down between his own legs.

"Sherlo-"

"Shutup!" He snaps. Shivering, he rolls his hips, seeking pressure strong enough, to take his own pleasure over the edge. Release was spectacular, stars glazed his vision, and goose bumps broke out across his skin. He twines shaky fingers roughly through John's cropped hair and collapses, utterly spent into his bloggers chest.

They lie on the hardwood floor, for 10 minutes, both feeling exposed, _exhausted_. The table had shifted halfway across the room, Sherlock chuckles positively exhilarated. He unwraps himself from John, standing up on shaky legs. John blinks, face expressionless he remains sprawled out on the floor.

"Let's do _this,_ every time I hurt myself." Sherlock winks, throwing his bandaged hand joyfully in the air.

"Let's not." John sighs, pulling his knees up under his chin.

"You're unbelievable!" Sherlock groans, mood suddenly destroyed. "Don't you _dare_ tell me, that what _you_ just experienced, wasn't the best climax you've ever had, _don't lie_, because I timed it, you've never come so hard in your life, even when you were, still with Sarah.

"How would you know that?"

"Your still fully clothed, that's how." He leans forward to fix the collar of John's red shirt. John jolts away, embarrassment flooding his features.

"I'm going to shower." John stands abruptly; glancing at Sherlock, his eyes linger at the other mans torso, scratches, _scratches _from his own fingers; riddle the detective's back. With a quick grimace he flees down the hall clutching onto little of what dignity he had retained. Behind the shut door, shaky hands struggle to turn the water on, John crawls into the shower, emotionally and physically drained. He doesn't bother undressing and stays in the shower for well over an hour.

"John?" Sherlock raps at the bathroom door. "Pull yourself together, for gods sake. Lestrade called, we have a case..."

"You and I just-"

"Yes, we did. It's what people do, deal with it." Sherlock annoyed, shamelessly opens the door and slams back the curtain.

"I can't believe you have the… Why are you still clothed?" He scans John's figure.

"I regret that." He gestures to the detective.

"You regret what? Sherlock flounders; heart pounding. "Me, you regret, me?

"No, no, I regret _that." _He rolls a wet finger over one of Sherlock's scratches.

"Don't be daft." Sherlock silently steps into the shower "I like them." He wraps his endless limbs comfortingly around John, the lukewarm water pours over both of them.

"Your torn, aren't you? He mumbles. "Ashamed?" He secures his grip around the doctor's waist.

"No, shocked."

**Well that escalated quickly! :P Hope you all liked it, I'm sorry if the grammar is a little off, it'll be fixed as soon as possible, but I was just so excited to post this chapter! Please review, my lovelies! :3**


	6. It bothers you

The next case revolved lightly around suicide, it wasn't confirmed though. Sherlock was trying to locate drugs hidden in a middle-aged woman's blood sample.

John refused to acknowledge what had happened 3 nights previously, but it lingered defiantly, the images looping mechanically in his head.

"John, pass me the second slide." Sherlock motions to a particular tray, eyes still fixated through the microscope lens.

"Right." John fumbles flustered, through various glass slides, plucking the one marked with an orange sharpie and hands it to the detective.

"I see," he comments aloud, "it still bothers you doesn't it?"

"Pardon?"

"You heard me."

"I told you, I'm confused."

"Of course you are."

The microscope clinks as Sherlock increases the magnification. "Ah yes! He leans forward and scribbles on a piece of paper. "A suicide it is John, the husband's innocent then. How mundane... "

"Fetch Molly won't you." John does as he's told, brining back Molly Hooper, who chats with the detective briefly. She bats her eyes as they swap information, and the body is re-covered and rolled away.

"Right Watson, dinner?"

"Mmm?"

"Oh don't appear so detached."

"Right, dinner, dinner is fine." His stomach growls as if on queue.

They pack up their gear in silence, Sherlock smiles amused by John uncertainty. He himself had struggled with his sexuality from an early age. It wasn't until he experimented with a senior student in university that he knew he was different. Matt Evans was sharp and completely alluring. He had a couple close encounters with women, but found that whilst he could appreciate their beauty, it was men that held his interest. The only one who came close, was Irene, but he later acknowledged that it was her adept level of intelligence, that attracted him. John however was reliable, accomplished and humble. He was quick to protect and impossibly winsome. Sherlock's infatuation began the moment they met.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John."

"You don't normally eat out."

"No, but you do." Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Do we want Mrs. Hudson's leftover meatloaf again?"

"Well... No"

It was an awkward 20-minute cab ride; Sherlock's frustration was obvious. Every attempt at conversation was met with a single syllable answer.

"Is Harry going forth with the adoption?"

"Yes."

"Did you buy milk yesterday?"

"No."

Upon arrival, Sherlock fantastically annoyed, throws money at the cabbie. He slides nimbly out of the vehicle and walks directly into the restaurant. The doctor follows timidly, his stomach flipping. John notices several men and a handful of gorgeous women eyeing the lanky detective. It was always notably unnerving being the company of Sherlock. _His features, were striking._

"Two seats please." He croons to their blushing waiter.

"I'm sorry we're chockers tonight." She nervously tightens her ponytail.

"I see, shame. Thank you, ah," he glances at her name-tag, "Clarice, Come John." He turns towards the glass doors. Fingers barely brushing the brass handles when the woman runs up to him.

"I, uh there's one table. We're cleaning it now, if you'd still like-"

"Yes Clarice that's fantastic!" He smiles at her, she blushes deeper and prances off to collect their menus.

Once seated John's eyes scour the list of delectable food. He orders the veal cutlets doused in a creamy tomato sauce. Sherlock decides upon the vegetarian lasagna. When their dishes arrive, the two men eat in silence. John bravely attempts a glance at Sherlock every so often, not willing to believe that the man was actually eating.

"Pick up your Jaw Watson." He growls, a mouthful of lasagna halfway to his lips. John concentrates excruciatingly hard on his meal embarrassed.

"Just because I don't _normally_ dine out, doesn't mean that I can't appreciate and _eat_ good food." John lost for words, gapes as the detective hails their waiter and orders a bottle of Merlot. Their waiter nods and rushes away, returning with a bottle and two glasses. She pop's the cork and leaves their table grinning like an idiot over Sherlock's simple _thanks. _John stares at the bottle for a split second.

"Can I?

"No, you _can't _John, I'm obviously going to drain the bottle myself." Sherlock picks up the wine and slams it a little to hard in front of John. John pours both him and Sherlock a drink; they sit back in their chairs and sip heatedly, both opting to glance at anything in the room, other than at each other. Three glasses down and John leans threateningly over the table eyes locking furiously with the detective's

"You really are a stubborn _dick." _

"Much appreciated." Sherlock beckons their waiter. "Another bottle Clarice."

"I can't believe you." He looks around, " in the kitchen, when you…" Sherlock grins bemused.

"You weren't declining."

"I don't think I had a choice. I'm your very own experiment aren't I?"

"So."

"You're not denying it?"

"I like you."

"Right…" John drains the last drop in his glass.

"Your scared."

"Pardon?"

"Of being with me."

"A little."

"I gathered," Sherlock drops his head, feeling oddly defeated. Like the comedown after a high, or not solving a case. The emotion was overpowering and painfully raw. He sucks in a breath.

"We'll pay now I guess."

"Yup."

They pay and walk down the street, eyes scanning the road in search of an available a cab. Sherlock whistles, one comes to a stop. He yanks the door open and encourages John in first.

"Take him to 221B Baker Street please, get him home, _safely." _He chucks a couple pounds on the seat next to John

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm walking." He slams the door and double taps the window, signaling the driver to go. The cab veers off.

The detective walks home alone, hands clenched in his pockets, he tries oh so hard gain control of his thoughts. The cold bites at his cheeks and the wind whips his curls in multiple directions. Halfway home and the sky releases a sheet of rain so thick that it made things almost impossible to see. He blinks back the water pouring relentlessly down his face and tugs at his saturated coat now like a dead weight upon his shoulders. _Not all experiments are successful, _he reminds himself. _That's why they're called experiments… _

His eyes focus on a dim street lamp in the distance. When he gets to the door of 221B his hands are shaking so badly that the brass key is all but impossible to get into the lock. He knocks pathetically.

"John?"

_John?"_

The door opens and the detective is pulled inside.

"You, are an idiot." John rips the saturated coat off and helps him up the stairs.

"Idiot." He repeats, sitting Sherlock on the sofa, fingers frantically removing articles of clothing.

"Don't you _dare, _do that again. He grips Sherlock's shoulders and plants a haste kiss on his blue lips, God help me if you get pneumonia." He throws a quilt over the detective and storms down the hall.

**Sorry it took so long for the update. Hope you guys are enjoying it! :)**


	7. Breathe

It had been a week since the restaurant confrontation. It was Saturday, 1.00am to be exact and John found himself up for the second time that night. The detective's cough echoed down the halls of 221B. _Knew he'd get ill the git. _John drags himself out of his bed and down the stairs to his flatmates room. Another violent cough fills the air and John is left cringing by the shear sound of it. _Not good._

_"_Sherlock?"

_Nothing_

_"_Mate, got you a heavier dose this round."

John creeps to Sherlock's bedside. With a furrowed brow he watches as the detective lets rip another round of hacking.

"Give it… to…me then." Sherlock croaks, eyes still closed.

"You'll have to sit up."

"Can't."

John instantly bends over and wedges his hand between Sherlock's back and the pillow he lifts with ease, the detective groans as he's gently propped up.

"Ow."

"Get this into you." John places the plastic cup to Sherlock's mouth. He sips it feebly.

"Gross."

"Your coughing up your lungs and yet you can still mange to say it's gross."

"Indeed." He shuts his eyes.

"You know none of this would of occurred, had you come home in the cab with me. You've a got a right case of Pneumonia, you idiot."

"Get in."

"What." John pauses, confused.

"Please?"

John nervously drops the plastic cup, the unsteady rhythm of his heart increasing prolifically. He does as he's told and slides under the duvet; Sherlock's fingertips confidently brush his hip.

"Thanks."

John lies awkwardly on his back. Not touching. _Your just here for company Watson. _

"Sherlock?

"Mmmm."

"How do you feel? Like on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being fine and 10 being chronic."

"If I tell you, will you leave me?"

"Umm."

"An 8 ½ then." He sighs, clenching his jaw.

"I see, not feeling so hot aye?"

"Actually I'm freezing." The chills coursed through his thin frame, forehead beading with sweat.

John raises a hand brushing the detective's slick skin._ Fuck what are you doing? _He avoids further contact, hands now clench defiantly by his sides.

"It's not the plague… John." Sherlock rolls over, annoyed, to face him.

"Certainly looks that way."

"You may as well head back to your own bed now, the medicine will kick in soon, right?"

"Should do." John unconsciously flings out his arm for the second time and rests the back of his hand reassuringly to Sherlock's chest.

"You're experimenting, you know that?"

"Pardon."

"You touched me. You want to know what will happen if you press further."

"For gods sake Sherlock not tonight and, no, I do not."

"Y-y-yes you do." He stutters as another cough consumes him, chest heaving, and mouth gasping franticallyfor air.

_"Breathe." _John whispers. He places a warm hand on the detective's diaphragm and encourages his body to relax. "I'm getting you a puffer tomorrow from the clinic, and you may need antibiotics." Sherlock regains composure and wheezes uncomfortably. John lets his hand wander aimlessly up the detective's ribs.

"Don't stop, your doing so well." Sherlock holds back another splitting cough, his eyes watering with the pressure. John twines his fingers weakly through the detective's damp shirt. He rolls, so that both he and the detective are exceedingly close. Sherlock's hair is plastered against his head, his lips pale and cheeks hollow. John feels his stomach flip and without further ado whispers the question he had been longing to ask.

"What would you like me to do? I don't know what to do." John finds himself pressing his own lips spontaneously, gingerly, against the detectives. _Oh so gentle, oh so soft and warm._ Sherlock groans as the doctor's mouth, parts from his own.

_"Now_, is your idea of timing? You couldn't have waited long enough for me to be able to reciprocate? Also you'll get sick."

"Shut up." John gingerly pushes the detective over and curls his body in closer.

"John?"

_"Zip it! _He nips the delicate skin at the detective's neck and relishes without shame, how his heart stutters like a jackhammer. "You know you need to work on being a tad more romantic. I like romance and all, but I'm scared you Know? _Petrified _of wanting to be with you, It's like every nerve is telling me no. To _look _but don't touch. It's confusing, not knowing who you are, or what you want, _desire can be blinding. _I didn't think I wanted you…"

"I've always wante-"

"I know you have, and that's what kills me, the fact that I may not be able to reciprocate your feelings, _whilst _living with you, has been torture. To put it kindly, it's made me edgy, _uncomfortable…" _He runs trembling fingers under the detective's shirt, and bunches them confidently at his chest.

_"_Am I willing, _yes, always have been_, Am I unsure, _absolutely!" _

"Test yourself." Sherlock utters weakly, "Listen to your thoughts."

"You don't." John nibbles his ear.

"No," he nods meekly. I never have, not until you came around, since then I've struggled to gain control of them. John I can't talk when you're doing that."

"I noticed." He smiles into the detective's neck.

"Obvious was it?"

_"Painfully so."_ He pulls his hips closer and bends his knees behind Sherlock's. "Next time not on the kitchen floor…"

"You _didn't _like it? " Another cough splits the air; John pats his back, the silence like a wall, standing briefly between them.

"I didn't say that." He whispers. "I didn't say that at all."

"I can be demanding huh?

"Sometimes."

"You need to experiment more."

"I just might have to…"

**Thanks for staying with me guys (much love). Hope your all enjoying it as much as I'm having fun writing it. Once the story is complete I will go in and fix grammar and what not, so bear with me in that regard. xx**


	8. Killing time

**(Pulls collar) is it hot in here? :P Hope you guys like this chapter! x**

"Jesus Sherlock, of all places!" John hisses irritably, eyes closing, as Sherlock's hips grind playfully behind him. The detective had rocked up to the clinic without warning. He unbuttons his coat and wraps it around John.

"Thought you despised this kind of affection."

"I don't mind it." Sherlock rolls his body.

"I'm working!" John spits behind him. The tall man chuckles and dips, lowering his stature and boldly clasps the doctors rear.

"No you're not." A smirk paints his features. "Sorry, needed to get that file behind you."

"And by behind me, you mean my… Right." Sherlock doubles over laughing, leaning his full weight on John.

"You're not sorry in the least."

"Like my play on words Watson?"

"I adore them. No really, get yourself a stand up act."

"Don't be like that." He kneads his knuckles rhythmically into the doctor's arse. "You, have a _fantastic_ bum."

"Ah, cheers?" Sherlock scowls. He pulls back frustrated.

"You have no idea, when it comes to men, do you? Treat me like one of your girlfriends, send me an email, text me. _I want you to."_

"Not today Sherlock, I'm on my break, I want to just sit for a moment, now if you would just leave…"

"Test yourself." He snaps irritably, his fingers dart to John's shoulder, flipping him round.

"Don't." Their eyes lock, neither looks away. John's face warms as the detective's eyes glance down.

_"Do it." _The command rolls beautifully from tense lips. The rich baritone seems to electrify his nerves. A blinding heat rushes through his body and gathers at his groin. He twitches uncomfortably, brilliantly _aroused._ Sherlock chuckles.

"I'm not even going to pretend to ignore that." He confidently rests his hand between John's legs.

"The colour your turning right now is, spectacular_."_ John remains silent; he pinches the bridge of his nose trying to remember to breathe. _Goddamit. _Sherlock's palm rolls with direct purpose against his growing erection.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck…_

He bites his lip, drawing blood. The detective leans in_; _and pauses just short of John's mouth.

"You really are a sight to behold, alas, I can tell you're still nervous. Your little flush reveals your arousal. I like that. I like it a lot actually. You're breathing like you're about to pass out, in saying that I'd happily resuscitate you." He snakes up John's hand, "palms are damp, oh my!" He smiles smugly, then without warning announces. "Right, I'm off then; I'll see you at home I guess." The detective drops his hand and pops his collar. He rakes his eyes one last time over John, and the detective notes that the doctor's flustered state is positively glorious. He ignores his own arousal, but he had gotten used to that. Suppressing it was rather easy, but poor John looked like he was about to buckle.

_"You ok?"_ He whispers, blatantly amused, his hand tickling the doorknob.

"Do I look ok?"

"You look handsome in your work clothes actually." That was the final straw for John; clearing the distance between them in haste, he secures eager fingers roughly behind the detective's neck.

"Take off that bloody scarf!" Sherlock's obliges releasing the blue cashmere. His bare neck an unmarked canvas, for John to paint with colour. He bites at the man's gorgeous collarbone, and bows his body into every contour. Sherlock allows his head to be pulled down roughly and is wonderfully confronted with a mouth that scrapes hotly down the length of his neck. A sly nip at his jawline is managed before two hands hold the detectives face still. Starting at his chin, John drags his lips upward, until he's met with Sherlock's open, panting mouth. They kiss roughly and lips are caught with urgency.

_"uh…" _Sherlock gasps, John continues to suck with skill, leaving the most violent bruise upon his heated skin, a painting of poppies on the wall behind them teeters precariously.

"Might need to tone it down a touch."

"God no" The detective protests, he slides his hands under the doctor's shirt grappling at the skin at his waist. _John reels. _Head spinning.

Sherlock smells like a mixture of tobacco and tealeaves. The scent, ridiculously intoxicating.

"Fabulous!" Sherlock groans, "Desk?"

"I think we should wait."

_"Please!"_

_"Well…"_

"I'm through with waiting…" Sherlock murmurs huskily, lips now in contact with the doctor's jaw.

"At home we'll conduct our own experiment. _Ok?" _He struggles to speak, impossibly turned on, unable to form coherent thoughts.

_"Fine."_ Sherlock growls, rolling his hips into John's as if to emphasis his need.

"Sherlock, you can wait…"

"_No, nope, absolutely not-_." He pushes a hand below his belt and closes a firm grip around his erection. He tugs gently.

_"Sherlock?" _John watches mesmerized by the detective facial expressions.

"You're there aren't you? Ah _fuck me!_" John leans forward and yanks the man's slender hand out with force. The detective huffs, slamming his head on the wall behind him, using his own hand, John touches the detective with ridiculous precision. He pushes and presses until he's pinned against the mini-fridge. The vibrating machine shakes between Sherlock thighs, and he's left white knuckling the handle in order to stay composed. John digs deeper, presses harder, and grinds without mercy. Sherlock open his mouth in the midst of this, legs deliberately spread in order to receive more simulation.

_Circle, circle, circle. _John grunts softly, leaning forward to take his mouth once more.

_"John?! Uh, I," _Sherlock breaks the kiss unable to focus, mind hazy with heat. His pupils widen, lips part in a perfect 'O', and fingers clutch feebly at skin. He whimpers, shuddering as if he had just been electrocuted. John curls one hand around his hipbone, the other rakes down his back. He presses with so much vigour that surely the wall would swallow them. Back arched, Sherlock convulses, he comes furiously, hot fluid dampening the inside of his trousers. The detective tries sucking in air, head still against the wall, curls splayed messily around his face. He pushes a lock back and blinks in awe.

"You, are _amazing_. Was I loud? Oh my god!_" _He babbles, positively enthralled. Eyes shift nervously to the door, half expecting someone to walk in and catch them. Sherlock was filmed with sweat, bruises line his neck and shoulders. John smiles, proud in the very least, it was a _huge _step, but one thing still needed taking care of. He unbuttons his trousers and pulls desperately at his own erection; a quiet moan is unconsciously released. Sherlock cringes.

"I've neglected you!"

"It's fine." John rapidly moves his hand back and forth, "not, _uh,_ a big deal." Sherlock shakes his head, mortified, as John brings himself to orgasm. He watches his blogger shudder and shake through the climax. The detective apologetically grabs John by his shirt, and yanks him between his legs again; he embraces the doctor, softly twining his hands through sandy hair.

"I owe you." He whispers; embarrassed by not satisfying the doctor himself.

"You don't owe me a thing." John pulls him in, attacking the detective's mouth. "Think I'm going to be in a constant state of arousal with you around, could be problematic, annoying even."

"Never." Sherlock shakes his head, "might make cases more interesting though, we seem to get stuck down quite a few alleyways."

"Indeed we do."

"Killing time will be easy now."

**Oh my! That was almost a full chapter of heated passion! Writing for these two is far to easy! Again I hope you're all enjoying it. **


	9. Frustration

**Dear lord! I'm so sorry for taking forever to update, a lot has been happening for me, I've running around like a mad woman! :P There is probably only going to be another chapter or two left of this story. I want to thank you all for sticking with me and for those of you who have enjoyed it, or reviewed it, many thanks! x**

Frustration, it was pure frustration, for both of them. _All the time… _John was still learning, still hesitant in some areas. They still hadn't even seen each other naked yet…_Pity._

They sit in a cab; Sherlock has his mobile pressed lightly to his ear.

"Of course, uh huh, no, no, we're on our way. He chats to Mycroft appearing slightly detached, and reaches over mid answer, to rub John's knee. The doctor's leg goes ridged. Sherlock hangs up and stares with fury at john.

"Not in public." He mutters.

"We are in a cab John, for Christ sake!" Sherlock looks out the window, heat burning his cheeks.

"Rejection?"

"Bad timing." John rephrases, his features softening. He leans over and pecks the detective's cheek.

"You're not getting any better."

"You don't make it easy." The cab pulls up to their destination and they scramble out. Mycroft stands before them, his feet crossed, an umbrella dangles from his hand.

"Boys…"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock sighs.

"A fine morning," he points his umbrella to the sky.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing at all, do you boys want tea? Sherlock turns on his heels and climbs back into the cab, the door is slammed violently, and it drives off, rolling out of sight.

"Right," John exclaims. Watching the car chug down the road. "That was umm."

"Sherlock," Mycroft nods after the cab and stops swinging his umbrella.

"Was he like that as a child?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"No need to be alarmed, he's better now for some reason, still a bit brash and unruly, but certainly better. Which reminds me, has he found someone recently?"

"I-I-I don't know."

"Shame, Mummy always did use to say that she'd like to see some grandchildren from him, he has the facial structure of our father…"

"Ok great, well um, I'll just leave then."

"I'll call you another cab."

"Cheers."

Back the apartment John fumes.

"You LEFT me there, with your brother!"

"How unfortunate." Sherlock sulks, pacing the living room. He stops at the window, hands deep in his pockets. He toys briefly with his violin, the notes pour luridly around the flat.

"Well two can play that game!" John spits. Sherlock wheels around, only to find that he's face to face with the doctor.

"I'm going out tonight, I've had it up to here with you!"

"Fine." John makes it to the door, but stops and looks back.

"You're meant to stop me, you bastard."

"I was just about to."

Without warning the detective rams into the doctor's chest, arms wrap snugly around John's shoulders. Sherlock's mouth assaults greedily.

"I _need_ you."

The floor was hard but neither of them felt it, a pillow is grabbed from the couch and shoved under John's head. Now sprawled out on the wooden floorboards, they rock into each other eagerly. Sherlock grapples with the doctors worn leather belt.

"Can I?"

"Yes!" John cries, raising his hips. Sherlock slides the belt from John's jeans and flings it aside. He returns to John's waist and yanks gently at the denim.

"Can I?"

"Yes." The jeans slide down past his ankles. Sherlock stops on his way back up to plant kisses on the inside of John's thigh.

"Good?"

"Oh god!" John's whimpers became more and more frantic. Sherlock smiles broadly, his teeth glinting in the late afternoon sun. He sits back on his heels and laughs; it booms wonderfully, the sound reaches John's heart, making it jolt with affection, and_ love? _

John grips the detective shirt and pulls him down again. Their mouths meet halfway and both men release a similar growl of urgency. Sherlock continues bravely, knowing all to well that this was the final test of his experiment_. Final. _

He pops the doctor's buttons one by one.

"Shall I continue?"

"Yes." The response is strong; zero hesitation is detected. So Sherlock unbuttons John's shirt, the fabric is pulled open. He stares momentarily, taking in the stocky build of the doctor. Scars from time done in Afghanistan riddle his torso, faded, but there. He stokes one of them thoughtfully, feeling each unique ridge under his sensitive fingertips.

"You are _beautiful." _Sherlock wasn't sure if he had used an appropriate choice of words, but regardless they felt right. John smiles at the detective, his body flushing with the release endorphins. The phrase was slightly out of context; he had never been called beautiful in his life. But for some reason he suddenly felt light headed.

"Will you let me love you?"

_"Yes." _ It was strange to see the detective cry. John had witnessed it only once before. His eyes brim with tears, and his nose turns slightly red. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek overwhelmed.

_What is wrong with me? _Emotion was a foreign feeling. Something so untouched within him. He coughs the lump out of his throat.

"You said roughly 2 week ago that we shouldn't do it on the floor. So come, lets move this upstairs." His voice was gentle, the passion hanging thickly in his words. John allows himself to be helped up by the detective. His legs a tad unsteady; he rids himself completely of his jeans and tugs at his socks. Sherlock drops his coat and stands behind _his_ doctor.

"If you say no."

"I won't."

"You might get scared."

"So be it then." Sherlock shivers and presses his body against John. He bends his head and rests his chin in the crook of the doctor's neck. John turns his head to Sherlock's ear.

"Won't you get undressed?"

"I shall. Go upstairs first." John only clad in navy boxers walks up the stairs quietly, his hands clenched by his sides. Sherlock frowns. He stares across the room; eyes locking on porcelain bone. He gestures subconsciously to his long-term friend. _He's nervous. _

The skull sits silently, light from a nearby lamp highlights it's features, the sockets stare blankly. _Don't look at me like that…_

The detective strides to his own room, he clumsily fumbles through his dresser to retrieve a bottle of lube. As embarrassing as it might be to explain, they would need it. Stuffing it into his breast pocket, he makes his way down the hall.

Hang onto your seats guys, final chapter will be intense! ^.^


	10. Burning

**You guys may have just gotten lucky, I couldn't sum up the story with just one last chapter so there is going to be another one coming. :P I guess it'll end soon though, these two have got to reach breaking point eventually! Sorry for the late update, I think it's been close to three weeks now since the last chapter, (Yikes! ) Sorry about grammar/spelling as per usual, I know I got to go back and fix a shit load of errors. :/ Thanks for sticking with me though you lovely followers/readers! 3 **

"What do _you_ want John?" Sherlock questions him for what had to be the tenth time that night, he hovers over his doctor, one leg sprawled on either side of John's waist. His chest heaves with anticipation, eyes glimmering black beneath damp curls. The detective drops his head and sighs.

"I'm not, I uh, I'm not used to being _taken_." John cringes, but reaches up and curls a trembling hand behind Sherlock's neck.

"Are you ok?" The detective lowers himself and kisses the corner of John's mouth.

"I don't know."

"Having second thoughts?" He tilts his head, and brushes the tip of his nose down the length of John's neck. _I'm not giving up this easily._

He grips John's waist and yanks their hips together. He can feel the cotton of the doctor's boxers against his thigh, they are annoying as hell, and the last thing he wanted to feel was fabric, a damn barrier…

"You love me?"

"Mmm."

"But you don't want a sexual relationship with me?" He presses further, his arousal now entirely stemmed. "We both know that, that's not true… GODAMIT JOHN!" He flies off the bed, fingers ripping harshly through his hair. John watches, eyes huge, as the tall man paces in circles around the room. He stops in front of the window and pulls back the curtain in an animated fashion.

He touches his forehead to the cold window breathing in deeply. "You know what?" he whispers, his voice suddenly softer, the words seem caught in his throat.

"You have me, my heart, my soul. _I am yours_…"

He walks back over to John the bitter flavour of defeat thick in his mouth. _It tasted horrible._

He absentmindedly begins readjusting things as he goes, a _distraction_. John knows it too. He sits up against the headboard bemused, the flutter in his chest returning.

Sherlock carefully handles a figurine of a sleeping basset hound, his boxers now slung low on hips. He places it down gently,_ exactly,_ where he had found it and then proceeds to the door.

"Tea?"

"That would be nice."

"Come on."

Sherlock is out the door instantly; his bare feet thudding softly down the stairs. He listens halfway down, and sure enough the rustle of bed sheets tells him that John isn't far behind him. It's cold, but all he can feel is heat? He fidgets nervously in the kitchen now filling up the kettle instinctively.

5 minutes, maybe 10 minutes pass and he still wouldn't known how long he had been standing there. Buying time, that's all it is in the end, as if that few extra seconds couldn't undo what had been done. _This is horrendous. _He pinches his brow, the emotion once again threatening to destroy his well-guarded barrier. Sherlock whips out their mugs, for probably the last time. Who knows, it could very well be the last time. _Fucking tea._

He settles into a chair half naked, emotional, furious and horny all at the same time. _This is why I don't do people, fuck humanity. _

He sprawls out on the chair a little more, raising his feet and dumping them quite aggressively, on top of the worn tabletop.

"We eat off there." Sherlock jumps as John rounds the corner, a dressing gown hugs his shoulders, but it remains open. His chest perfectly revealed. He walks pass Sherlock to the two mugs sitting on the counter. He pours the milk and shuffles back to the table placing the mugs down gently.

"Thanks."

"Your welcome."

They sit in silence; the clock now reads 11:30pm.

"I'm sorry." John looks directly at the detective.

"You're not."

Sherlock stares blankly ahead.

"Sherlock?"

_"Sherlock?_

"Go awa-"

"We are going to talk, LOOK at me. I'm just as embarrassed as you are? I'm so bloody mortified. You are otherworldly, how can I compete with that? I care for you so much, and yet feel like I have so very little to give.

"Your words don't make sense John. The detective drops his feet from the table and leans closer. "I'm functional with you, I'm whole with you, and you seem to be able to live without me. I can't say the same. It's painful…

John rests his head in his palm. He traces the handle of his mug thoughtfully before pulling his olive green dressing grown off. He rolls it briefly between his hands and places it over the back of his chair.

"You see me, don't you? Not only the physical wounds, I've never had anyone break me down as much as you have, your eyes pierce right through any wall I've ever put up. Sherlock blinks and points at the scar in awe.

"If that bullet had hit you just an half an inch higher, it could of clipped your heart." John nods knowingly, watching as the detective's eyes hungrily trace the faded wound. They flicker back and fourth, with a particular want.

"Go on then." Sherlock locks eyes with John, the glance enough to let him know that it was ok to touch. He pulls his chair closer, trembling ever so slightly. When a single fingertips circles the rough skin. John groans the sound barely audible.

"It still feels so… I can feel it down to my core." He quivers. And Sherlock stops, lifting up his hand.

"It's ok." He reassures the man in front of him, a smile playing softly at his lips. "It just feels bizarre." Sherlock continues his prodding.

1.00 AM

"You're never satisfied are you?"

"No." He smiles back, "never." His magnifying glass is now pressed eagerly up to the damaged skin.

"I could let you do this all night you know." John sighs. His body tingling from the detectives gentle, prying fingers. He slips drowsily in and out of sleep, resting his head against Sherlock's bare chest. The detective bows his own head silently in return; he kisses the John's scar gingerly, lips lingering beautifully. His tongue slips past his teeth and glides over the same spot, now flushed pink from where he had sucked there. Their chairs are so close now that Sherlock's knees are wrapped snugly around John's.

They both remain in the kitchen embracing one another, not daring to move should the moment shatter. Flooded with want, wracked with desire, both _burning _for one another.

Hope you all like! xx


	11. Scream my name

**Here you go guys!**

In a cab on the way home from another successful case, the detective and his blogger lock eyes. Could possibly the night then. _The night? _Why does it have to be so dramatic?Either way he could only hope. Right?

_So it does get easier?_ John opens the cab door and clambers out. Sherlock's thanks' the cabbie and shuts the door.

It's a Friday night and yet they still manage to scramble into the flat, yelling at one another. Sherlock scowls and turns to him.

"You act like we're married and yet we don't even have a healthy sexual relationship!"

"I never though you were a Sexual person!"

"John, you know that, that's untrue. Whereas you've always been sexual."

"Have not."

"Not with me…"

"It's NOT like that at all!"

"YES, it is!" Sherlock blinks back at the oblivious John.

"Ok well maybe a little. Sorry…" He places a reassuring hand on Sherlock shoulder.

They scramble up the stairs in a messy collision with each other. Sherlock reaches the top of the stairs first, and slyly seizes John's belongings from his grasp.

"No, no that gear is expensive!"

The detective gently places the bags on the floor. He turns to face John, securing his hands at his waist.

Sherlock?"

"Mmmm?" The detective yanks him closer. Their hips touch and Sherlock walks the doctor back against the wall. John laughs, the sound ringing pleasantly through Sherlock's ears.

"What?"

"I'm impossibly turned on, that's what." John grips the detective's head between both of his hands and pulls his face down. He kisses Sherlock with so much fervor that the detective is left panting when they break apart.

This is new. The normally quiet, nervous and timid John is finally taking control. Sherlock almost chokes with excitement. John continues, now eagerly grappling with the lanky man's shirt, he unbuttons it quickly, and peels it back. His mouth begins working it's way upward. John's low chuckle brings him back.

_"What?"_

"Look who's doing the experimenting now?

"Huh?"

Me you twat! You're so tall, hold on." He begins pushing the detective down the stairs, until they are at eye level and then continues his assault on Sherlock's neck.

"That's better." Sherlock merely groans as his neck is nipped and sucked. But John's passion had sparked a fire, the heat was burning him up, and he had to reciprocate for fear of John turning him down once again. The detective begins returning the kisses; he presses into John and flips them around, now pulling the doctor eagerly into the sitting room.

"We never make it to a damn bedroom!" He laughs, pushing John into the closest couch.

"I mean you usually lose interest." He falls down into the cushions but John pulls the detective with him. They lie momentarily. Till Sherlock shifts between John's legs, he rolls slowly between them before sitting up and removing his coat, it falls to the floor with a gentle swoosh. His hands move round and possessively cling on to John's rear. He pulls and rocks until John's Moans are at breaking point. The sound driving him _wild._

Sherlock begins undoing the doctor's belt; he unbuckles it quickly and slips John's trousers around his ankles. The lower he gets, the more urgent John whimpers. Sherlock kisses lower and lower, until John can barely stand it. He pulls the detective up and stops him by kissing his mouth urgently.

"You don't have to do that." He gasps passed Sherlock's ear.

"I want to, you always like it." He breaks the kiss and slides back down, his hand caressing the length of his torso. When Sherlock's nimble fingers break past the waistband of his pant's he's left writhing with anticipation. The small couch makes it all the more intimate, and the little to no room leaves them completely wrapped around one another.

Sherlock's left hand shifts and secures a trembling leg. He drags his mouth lower and holds back the cotton with his pointer finger. John is flushed, his eyes half closed and his lips pressed tight together. He curls one of his hands into Sherlock's hair. This paired with a ridiculously throaty moan, encourages Sherlock further. He wraps his mouth softly around John, and begins circling his tongue.

This had to be it, the make or break of their relationship. This couldn't be a one off; it was the real deal. If love is what was at stake here, then this moment had to be perfect. Sherlock sucks softly, then harder, bringing John closer. He cries out in pleasure, and brings his knees up hugging Sherlock's head in place.

"Stop, I want a say in this," he pants and for the second time, pulls Sherlock up to face him. "This can't just be about me", he pauses kissing him quickly, "it has to be about both of us. Sherlock stutters, the words caught in his throat. "I know" he responds unsure. Nothing had prepared him for that. John did care for him then. _Someone_ cared for him. That was enough to bring that horrible lump to his throat. He wraps his arms around John's neck and buries his head in to his chest. When John parts from his grip and begins hesitantly removing the detective's clothes, it all becomes real, but who would take whom? Oral was universal, penetration however, was something else entirely. This could ruin or ensure everything. Sherlock parts from John and quickly and stands up, half undressed and flustered, he locks eyes with John still sprawled out on the couch.

"Come on," he grabs the doctor's hand and pulls him up. "We are moving this elsewhere." John stands and walks behind Sherlock, his hands eagerly, _bravely _reach toward the tall man's waist, and toy with his hips. Feeling slightly nauseous, Sherlock turns halfway up the stairs to question his lover.

"I-I- I'm…"

"It's ok." John reassures.

Was it weird that he knew what to do? After years of taking control in the bedroom, why should it be any different with Sherlock? The stocky army doctor had known this all along. And yet he still didn't find it as uncomfortable as he thought it was going to be. Once the door shut behind them it was instinctual, in saying that Sherlock's pitiful mews of pleasure where ridiculously hot. John nestled boldly between Sherlock's legs and began rubbing his growing erection gently against the detectives. John curled his thumbs in Sherlock's pants and pulled down slowly.

"Hurry."

"Good things co…."

"Shut up John!" He growls at the doctor and parts his legs. John chuckles and rids himself completely of his own clothing. Now fully naked, John flings his leg over the detective's waist and straddles him, he rocks his hips just a little and relishes with joy over the fact that Sherlock was now an utter mess.

"Lube." He motions to the beside table. "In…there." John flattens himself down over Sherlock's chest and gropes around in the dim light for the small bottle. He finds it, and applies some to himself. Sherlock lowers his hand nervously, and feels for John's erection, it was hard, for him…

As John slides down between his thighs Sherlock's mouth wanders to Doctor's damaged shoulder, he kisses lightly, his hands wrapping softly in John's sandy hair.

"Oh God..." John wheezes as he guides himself slowly into the detective. He continues pushing very gently until he was fully enclosed. Sherlock's hips rise to accommodate more of him.

"Oh, my God…" He repeats pulling back. It was so tight and so warm that the sensation had his body quivering. Sherlock's moans shot up an octave.

"John!"The noise was so pathetic, so wracked with desire…

_My name,_ John blinks in amazement. The way it sounded coming from Sherlock's lips, was such a turn on. He tilts his head up and catches Sherlock's open mouth. "You'll be _screaming_ that later…"

**There will be a part two to this steamy scene! I fell into a bit of a rut this month and haven't had time to update; I'm so sorry my lovely followers! Hope you enjoy! x**


	12. We work

Sherlock had, had previous experience with men that point was already perfectly clear. John had never been with man, he had never considered himself even remotely bisexual. It was obvious now that the socially inept detective fit the bill just perfectly, if he had to choose any male to be with, it would be with Sherlock.

Fingers curled, legs trembled and bodies twined. It was the first time that sex wasn't just about performing. It was about falling, losing yourself in another person. Sex was fluid with Sherlock. The detective could deduce the slightest form of arousal, knew when and where put his hands. Everything was amplified.

Sherlock was equally as thrilled and noted that, John cooed at the slightest touch a product of his arousal, and he had never been so pleased. He pulled John back down on his hips and encouraged him to speed up. His voice if possible got even huskier.

"John I'm going to need-" He groaned in what sounded like pain.

"What?" John's concern almost made the detective laugh.

"You found it… For goodness sake Watson- just fuck."

"I don't understand."

"Move!" Sherlock croaked, he grabbled at the doctor's waist, and angled his hips so that their pelvic bones were almost touching.

"Are you deaf? I can't believe I'm saying this..." The detective moaned again and all but screamed. "Fuck me!"

The words wafted around John's hazy mind for a second or two before registering. _The damn prostate…_ John curved over Sherlock's body and brought his legs up to secure his hips. He thrust with purpose, building the speed that made Sherlock howl with bliss.

It was all nails against skin and bruised lips now as they devoured one another. John dove again, his head brushing the detective glossy chest. Sherlock's more than ample handful of the doctor's arse encouraged him further.

"I fucking _can't…" _The detective's cry pierced the air. He had been rather quiet, so John yanked the man's head down, kissed him and whispered.

"How close?" Sherlock's head lolled slightly, "think of this like an experiment, what do you need to make it work?"

"Flip."

"Right!" They flipped round swiftly, Sherlock grabbed the headboard and John grabbed Sherlock's fantastic arse. He hissed and rested his head against the wood. John's hand reached up to rub lightly between Sherlock's shoulder blades. He traced fingers down Sherlock's ribs before swiveling them under his stomach and giving one firm stroke to his semi firm erection. The touch alone produced another cry of ecstasy.

"You're far to good at this!"

"Hardly, but you're getting harder." He smiled into Sherlock's back.

"Did that happen quickly?" John groaned at his response.

"Fuck now, deduce later."

_"Shit!"_

Sherlock's head dropped again, and John bent round over Sherlock's back and rocked even closer. The skin of John's thighs touched Sherlock's on every thrust. This position amplified everything, including John's arousal and he found a loud moan rip out of his own mouth.

"_Oh no!"_ John growled asSherlock stretched down like a cat, back dipped and butt out, it was round and _oh, _what a magnificent sight. He cursed as well and bounced back into John. The rhythm was ball out fantastic. John gripped one hip and kept stroking with the other.

"Bloody hell you're flexible!"

"What good? Bad?"

"Good, very good!"

They both rocked faster now, breathless.

"Would like me to tell you when I come?" John stifled a laugh and felt the ridiculous urge to slap him. The urge was more powerful than he thought because his hand flew out and seared over Sherlock's backside. His yelp was quite expected, but what wasn't expected was a scream of pure ecstasy.

"Do it again!" Sherlock mewled now trembling, sitting on the edge of the plateau. John carved his finger down the detective's back and up again to slap his arse a second time. Sherlock collapsed beneath him quivering and John fell out. The detective's whimpers shot out around the room.

"John!" _He screamed it, he fucking belted it._ John had to reach forward and slap his hand over the detective's open mouth.

"Shhh!"

Sherlock's fingers had twined in the flannel sheets, and the doctor was very aware of the curled toes digging into his calves.

"Sherlock?" John whispered.

"Mmmm."

"Oh fuck…" Sherlock rolled back up and pushed against John again. John moaned with him highly aware of the orgasm ripping beautifully through the detective's body, coming down from the high. He sat up and turned to face John, whose mouth was agape in awe.

"That was gorgeous, you're beautiful," He flushed with pleasure.

"You did that and I'm yours." He held out his hand and stared at it. "I'm shaking, that's new." He turned around pulled John in front of him.

And to forget you, no way in hell!" Gripping the doctor's knees he pulled until John was sitting towards the end of the bed. It was moments before those dark curls brushed his thigh and a warm mouth toyed with the end of his cock.

"Yes!" John's finger flew to those curls in a heartbeat. The sexual tension had boiled over and he was in dire need of release. The detective had a very skilled mouth; the combined tongue and hand motion had him there in seconds.

"Come for me." Sherlock broke off to utter the words. But it was like a strict command that bore through his body. John shuddered aware of the tightening in his balls.

"I'm coming, if you _wan- _want get- off… finish by hand…" He could barely get out the sentence, but Sherlock remained, his tongue went even lower and flicked lightly, _playfully_ at the base of his hardening ball-sack. His release was there and he began quaking. Both hands wrapped in Sherlock's hair pulling so tight he emitted a squeak. Sherlock stayed, he swallowed, _the man damn swallowed! _He closed his eyes and sighed, he had never felt emotional after sex, but shit this was fucking surreal. He pulled the very smug Sherlock up from between his thighs and encouraged him back onto the bed.

"Where did you learn how to do that?"

"One always observes Watson."

"What porn?"

"No, even better. Your porn."

"Fuck Sherlock you're a wanker. Come here!" He pulled the man, his lover, his doctor, towards him, and kissed his mouth softly trying to share what he was feeling.

The raw emotion was threatening to consume him. Sherlock embraced him back, returning the kiss of his soldier, the brave man with damaged exterior but who had the warmest of hearts.

"We work don't we?"

"We do." John smiled back. "Although, I'm not so sure about the slapping thing, I think we're going to need to trial that more often." Sherlock's cheeks tinted, even in the dim light.

"That was uncalled for, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I like it, I like it a lot, we might have to well, I don't know, work on that, or how do you say it? _Experiment a tad more."_

"In the bedroom?"

"Oh GOD yes!"

**Such a corny ending I know! If anyone id adamant on an alternative ending or if adding something else would of made it better don't hesitate to let me know. Also I'm sooooooo sorry it's taken me forever to update. I'm positive I'm finished with this one, many thanks to all who have read it/ put it in their faves. I know the grammar and spelling may be a little off, I will (if given the time) still try to go back and update and fix things, but for now I'm happy with it. On another note, I do have other ideas for future stories between these two, so stay tuned. Much love to all of you! xx **


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